My Letter From Sonic

Some childhood memories are weird.

They're not necessarily bad, they just make you ponder a little bit. One that came back to me recently was the time I received a letter from Sonic the Hedgehog. I know, it sounds exciting, doesn't it? The idea that everyone's favourite blue blur was once my pen pal makes me seem like a very important person, and I'm vaguely tempted to put it on my résumé.

No, it wasn't a short-lived promotional scheme from SEGA or anything like that. If that had been the case, it probably would have cost me $30 per sentence, and consisted of little more than words that rhyme with Corey.

It all started with a letter my sister had received. She claimed that it was from Melody, of My Little Pony Tales, and I was absolutely gobsmacked. I can't remember how old I was at the time, and near as I recall, I don't even think it said 'from Melody' anywhere on the letter. To be quite honest with you, the fact that I believed her is probably an indictment of my intelligence. I mean, it's not like I ever thought that Melody was a real living being or anything, but why did I have any reason to question it?

If my sister says that a fictional pony wrote her a letter, then fuck, I guess that's what was happening in the world now. What a time to be alive!

She claimed that if you sent a letter to some place called Cartoon Land or some such, they would write a reply. A quick Google Maps search confirms that there is a Cartoon Land in Romania, and one in France that breeds Maine Coons. As the latter doesn't sound particularly relevant, I'll assume that this wonderful magical place of correspondence was the Romanian one.

My tiny little brain raced with the possibilities. I was an opinionated child, and always keen to speak my mind. Maybe one of my heroes would listen to me?

There was not a single doubt as to who I would send a letter to, however. I was going to get in touch with my buddy, Sonic the Hedgehog. Anyone who has frequented this blog would know my colourful history as a Sonic fanboy, and indeed, the insane lengths I will go to just to validate that fandom. So really, it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise that he was the first name that popped up.

Whatever I wrote to Sonic, I can't recall for the life of me. I wasn't really penning a lot of letters at the time, and my propensity to ramble aimlessly was apparent even back then. I don't think I asked him any questions about his life or anything, because I was a selfish fuck, and he would probably find my story much more interesting.

I passed the letter onto my sister, and away it went! Off to Cartoon Land, possibly in Romania.

And so, the waiting game began. What if he didn't read it? What if he thought I was dumb, and showed it to all his friends? What if it got intercepted by Dr. Robotnik en route, and he used it as the final piece to his most nefarious plan? I don't know how a child's poorly written letter could be used for evil, but I'm sure he could come up with something.

Then, the day came.

Addressed to Anthony Cocking, of 2770 Tatton Road. A letter from Sonic the Hedgehog. It even had these awesome little drawings of Sonic and Tails on the envelope, so you knew it was legit. I eagerly tore it open, and read through the note with great intrigue. It was mostly filled with praise, as well as advice that I should always listen to my sister, because she was very smart.

Alright, so we all know that she wrote the letter (or at least I assume that was the case. What a fucking twist it would be if it was legit), but it didn't dawn on me at the time. She said that if I wrote to Sonic, he would write back, and there it was, in my hands. I don't know if I had ever mentioned having a sister in my missive, so that was a bit of a risky gambit there, but as we've already established, I wasn't really that bright.

The point is, it was a sweet gesture from my sister that brought a little bit of whimsy into a young boy's life. Or she was playing mind games, who knows for sure. It's just a shame that being so tight with Sonic didn't help me get that Collector's Edition any cheaper.

So I posit the question to you, the void reader: who would you write to, if Cartoon Land was indeed a real thing? Given the opportunity today, I'd probably send a letter out to Skeletor. I'm sure he's got some shit to get off his chest.

#0091: Lunchboxes

There's a lot of pressure as an adult to fit in. Wear the latest fashion. Frequent the hottest clubs. Pay for only the finest of prostitutes. It can be stressful just to walk out your front door; who knows what looks of judgement you might garner if your ensemble isn't 'on point', 'on fleek', or at least even 'on properly'?

What few realise, however, is that we've been training for this all of our lives. From your very first day of school, your reputation is staked on what you're repping. Transformers sweater? Cool. DuckTales backpack? Nice. Milli Vanilli pencil case? Nope, you done fucked up. Now you're the smelly kid, and to even acknowledge your presence is social suicide. Girl, you know it's true.

Lunches also played a significant role in your standing in the classroom community. Your parents diligently assembled what they believed to be a balanced, nutritious meal (or they gave you a couple of bucks for the canteen because they didn't love you). But it wasn't just food. It was currency. You may have had to swap items around like cigarettes at a prison. If you weren't packing some serious swag, you would probably starve. So many tiny bodies strewn about the playground. At least, that's how it was in the 90s.

But before you even unveiled that bounty, you were making a statement.

If you had an awesome lunchbox, it put you in a good position for success. If not, then fuck you, kid - you would never achieve greatness.

So just from seeing this, you know that I was lit af.

When the Ninja Turtles began losing steam in the mid-90s, Sonic the Hedgehog picked up the ball and ran with it in a manner that was decidedly expedient. There was an unfortunate lack of gamers at my school, so he didn't universally blow minds (nor did my Bubsy Halloween costume in 1993, with the green player two exclamation mark because I was avant garde). But people knew of him, and knew that he was cool. So this lunchbox served me well as a starter piece.

It features Sonic running as usual, with the typical smug grin on his face. Robotnik hovers behind, looking rather displeased. It could be because he appears to have misplaced his glasses, and cannot see where he is going at the moment. He shakes his fist in a furious rage, though something about the angle of it makes me think that it's all a misunderstanding, as he might just be using an invisible bath brush.

The trademark aesthetic has been captured well, with the familiar checkerboard design and even a loop-de-loop in the background for good measure. I can't help but wonder where it is that Sonic is actually running from, because there's nothing but a lone column and an endless ocean behind him. We all know that Sonic really fucking hates water, so it's unlikely he emerged from there. Plus, he doesn't look wet at all. Is this the start of the zone, perhaps? Maybe the precursor to a boss fight? Is the Chao Garden coming back??

We may never know the answer to any of these. Except for the last one, where the answer is no, because Sega hates us all. I asked them myself. They told me to 'please leave, sir, you're upsetting the receptionist'.

It used to have a thermos in it that, near as I recall, sported the Sonic logo. That thermos has since gone missing, proving that I was absolutely fucking hopeless with accessories. Misplaced weapons are one thing, but the fact that I have lost something that was literally stored inside something else is a huge indictment. In my defence, it may have been cursed.

Once I debuted this bad boy here, I was the king. The Flintstones had long since run out of steam in the '90s, with each attempted film reboot simply dragging it deeper into the tar pits. I loves me some Rick Moranis, but fuck me, casting him as Barney Rubble is whack.

However, this lunchbox transcends the appeal of its franchise. This is not just a Flintstones lunchbox. This is a lunchbox from the Flintstones. By using it, you were a fucking Flintstone, officially. Every time I pulled it out, I would declare, "Wilma, I'm home", to rousing laughter from my classmates.

At least, I remember them laughing. It could be revisionist history.

In actuality, I don't know if we ever saw Fred sporting anything that remotely resembled this stone and bone motif. From what I've garnered, his lunchbox was actually made of wood or ambiguous blue shit because surely nobody will be paying attention to his fucking lunchbox.

But my reign on top was not just based on pure aesthetics, oh no. Though the delightful lunchbox drew in the crowd, my true popularity would come from what secrets it held within. This was around the time that my parents had happened upon Squeezits. Twist off the lid, clutch that sumbitch with all your might, and suck the very essence from its noggin.

Everyone knew they were incredible, that much was plain to see. But I discovered a bizarre feature that made me everyone's best friend during lunchtime: after you'd pop the lid off, a small amount of juice was still in there. I don't know the science behind it, I dare not question it. I instead embraced this curiosity, gifting the lid to whomever I chose on that particular day.

That's right. I was the fucking Squeezit lord, and everyone around me became my loyal subjects, desperate for just a taste of my royal nectar. I was smooth, too. I would drag the whole thing out, and I wouldn't just dish it out to my friends. I had the hots for Kathleen, and damn man, she wanted the D.

D obviously standing for drink. Come on, guys. Keep up.

I can't remember how long this went on for, but to this day, it remains the coolest I have ever been. I'm scarcely a fraction of the man I was back then, but at least for that brief, fleeting time, I was immortal.

Despite this, my sister won the lunchbox wars handily. Not even the combined forces of Sonic the Hedgehog and Fred Flintstone could come near the kind of legendary branding she had at her disposal. Hers still lurks in a cupboard, dormant and untouched. Its only purpose in this existence is to mock my inferiority, and to gaze upon it brings me such incredible envy.

I am so fucking jealous.

Addiction renewed, part 1

So what happens, you may be asking, when a blog dedicated to clearing space and moving on in life comes to a stall?

...Addiction sets back in, of course. And because I've arbitrarily made the commitment to never get rid of any toys unless they're in the guise of this blog, there's only things coming into my possession, when it's supposed to be the other way around.

But hey... I hope you enjoy my amiibos!! I certainly do. I wonder if they're the only item that's rapidly multiplying? Stay tuned...

#0048: Sonic Turbo Challenge Road Race Set

To say that today’s entry is a difficult one to make is an understatement. Frankly, this may be the hardest in the long run, because this is a departure that was against my will. My hand was forced by the bitter wrath of God, and I fight back an outpour of emotion as I spit a Latin curse at the moon.

A primer: It is ironic that after my audacious claims in a prior Sonic-related post that I held the uncanny ability to collect any toy I truly wanted, it is later with that very same hedgehog that I find the exception to the rule.

There we were, strutting our stuff through a store. What was this store? I dunno, but I remember there not being many toys. I’d claim that it was a hardware store of some description, but then, there would be no toys at all. Unless it was a hardware store constructed by a man with the heart of a child, like Michael Jackson or Bud Adams. But I digress. Just a little.

And on this particular day, I spotted on the shelf a prize like no other. A prize that, in any other packaging, would have no doubt passed my attention without incident. However, this particular item was sporting my main man, Mr. Needlemouse. Yes indeed, it was the Sonic the Hedgehog Jeu De Course Sur Route Pour Challenge Turbo! And this was the amusing thing about growing up in Canada, everything was laden with French! But no; really, in my eye, it was the Sonic the Hedgehog Turbo Challenge Road Race Set. Or to be more specific, it was a box of cars with Sonic.


But alas! The parentals were steadfast. They would not be granting their whelp the box of Sonic cars on that day. At the time, I felt slighted to the umpteenth degree. Today, I grab that little bastard by the throat and tell him ‘how about you work 40 hours a week and buy it yourself? HUH?!’

What can I say, I’m a violent father. But it’s a retroactive violence against a younger version of myself, so it’s okay. It’s practically masochism. In fact, if you watch it juxtaposed against Ken’s theme from Street Fighter, it’s kind of fucking epic.

But I digress again. More so. The days would turn into months, and I don’t exactly recall how much the Sonic road race set (jeu de course!) weighed on my mind. Because this was 1994, and some serious shit was going on in the world. Some political stuff, some human interest stuff, some Donkey Kong Country stuff. So really, we were all probably a little pre-occupied.

To close the year on Christmas Day, one present stood out among all others. A little bit bigger, a little bit more significant, a little bit more radical. I’ll dispense with the suspense now, because you already know the substance, so it’s nonsense. Basically, I got the Sonic cars for Christmas. Life was worth living! There would indeed be a 1995, after all.


The concept was familiar; slot cars powered by a metallic connection to the racetrack, fed through the juice from a veritable army of D batteries. The little lights on the front of the car would illuminate when you pushed down on the throttle, and you could finally live out your fantasy of making Sonic peel about the course before your very eyes! …If, you know, Sonic was behind the wheel of a car. Like in Sonic & Sega All-Stars Racing, just without Billy Hatcher all up in your grill.

So understandably, as the logical six-year-old that I was, I instantly assumed that the goal was to make Sonic car go as fast as possible, and I jammed down on that button with fury. And he would zip so majestically, until he hit the first bend in the track, and skidded to a deadly halt, in a most un-Sonicly fashion.

What was this sorcery? Sonic could not go at supersonic speeds without crashing to his doom, ala Tommy in Tell Laura I Love Her? Would this mean that, for the first time in our lives, we would have to show restraint?

It would seem so, judging by the yellow car manned by my cousin, who was rounding the corners with ease and heading onto his next lap. In all fairness however, his car had a Tails sticker, it was bound to have better handling.

It was a daunting task, but I came to terms with it eventually. You see, kids these days don’t know how good they have it: they can just watch Cars to learn all about how to handle corners. Lightning McQueen didn’t hit our screens until I was 18 and behind the wheel of an actual car, at which point safe turning was useless advice to me.

In the end, I finally learnt something that day, and carefully accelerated on the straights, while easing the pressure on the turns. It was a hollow victory, because my cousin had figured that out right from the start, and had already completed the circuit eight laps ago.

It’s a little over seventeen years later, and I would most certainly love to recreate that pristine Christmas afternoon, but something is amiss. The aforementioned wrath of God, you were still pondering about that, weren’t you? Well, I’ll go one better than to tell you: I’ll show you.


Holy shit, my Sonic wheels have fucking melted.

Keen racing enthusiasts will note that this is detrimental to driving properties, and frankly, I have no idea how it happened. I mean, honestly: Australia is a warm climate, no doubt, but it’s not known for temperatures so scorching it will melt shit. And before you ask, no, this was never in the garage. It’s been sitting in the dining room since 1997, and I personally don’t dine in rooms hotter than ovens.

As you may have surmised, this effectively renders my Sonic racetrack inoperable. I mean, sure, I could possibly salvage the track and its components in the assumption that there are other slot cars that would operate on it, but surely, if someone out there has said slot cars, they most assuredly have tracks as well. The only thing they’re missing is a pair of palm trees, and I cautiously question the importance of that.

So out into the exciting world of landfill goes my Sonic track. I feel absolutely treacherous to dump something my parents so lovingly bought for me all those years ago, but what other option do I have? Really slow, awkward races where the cars bounce up and down as if they had a jack on the wheels? Screw that, Sonic is made for speed baby, he’d prefer to go down in flames.

And really, isn’t this an appropriate fate for a Sonic-themed racing set? No doubt it would have been pure degradation for the cars to have been ushered through the generations, once a hip, speedy toy, later an ancient dinosaur of plastic and metal. It’s like a proud racing horse that is relegated to children’s fairs in its advanced years.

Instead, jeu de course died in a blaze of glory. Look at it this way, we literally burned rubber. And that is pretty damned badass, no matter what way you spin (dash) it.

Jeong & Knuckles

My lovely fiancé has decided that she wants to start collecting meaningful bobbleheads. I'm behind this 110%, because as you might have gathered, while I'm doing okay at clearing away toys, I'm starting to mount a concerning initiative to have several decorative pieces. I'm quite convinced that this is just a mental ploy I'm pulling on myself to justify the continued influx of toyyyyyzzzzz.

What can I say? I'm a consumer at heart. How else could you explain a $20 iTunes binge tonight? I think I increased sales of Mr. Big by 30%.

Anyhow. 'Meaningful' in our world somehow translates to Knuckles the Echidna, and Mr. Chow from the Hangover. One will be displayed proudly in her classroom, for all of the little kids to adore, to play with, and to ask questions about his origin. The other, is Knuckles. Har-har.

So, with the aforeseen (that's not a word? Screw it, I'm using it anyway) Richard Nixon, that brings our growing collection to a glorious three. Who will be the next to grace our shelves, nodding like an enthusiastic yes-man?

Jack Skellington?

David Wenham?

General Larry Platt?

Stay tuned...


Chow: "So long, gay boys!"

Knux: "It's the hair, isn't it?"

My mate Sonic

In case it wasn't drummed in your head enough times prior to this, I was a massive fan of Sonic the Hedgehog growing up. And I still love that blue gaffer, be it in his classic, pudgy form, or as the spindly wise-ass of today.



Me and Sonic, we go way back, you see. As soon as I nabbed my first Sonic game bundled with the Sega Genesis (Sonic 2, in case you were wondering. I was a year late to the party), I was hooked. Whether it was Sonic gear for my birthday, or a Sonic costume for Halloween, I was proud to show off my true colours (blue, with some red thrown in).


...Oops! How did that third photo get in there? Isn't that the figure set that came bundled in the collector's edition...?

Why, yes. Yes, it is.

A little while ago, I bit the bullet and made the most frivolent purchase of my young life. I'm not entirely proud of it, but I can't help but feel satisfied. For I paid a grand tally of $527.32 Australian to nab the elusive box of wonder.


Because, like I said, Sonic Generations is more than a game. It's a culmination and celebration of 20 years worth of fandom (well, 19 in my case, but let's not split hairs). Consider this my way of thanking Sonic for years of good service, and as I proceed in this blog, expect to see one or two pieces of Sonic gear finally leaving my possession.

Like Sonic, I'm growing up, and it's time for me to give a little piece of my past to the next generation.

Though, that's not entirely true. It's not like I'm going to offload something awesome like Sonic & Knuckles or Sonic Adventure 2... More likely, they'll just get the Sonic candy container or something. But still. It's the thought that counts.

Sonic the Hedgehog... here's to 20 more years, and many more beyond that!

The search for Sonic

The acronym INAKA supposedly stands for 'I'm Not a Kid Anymore', and it's connotations include growth, maturity and adulthood.

Isn't it funny, then, that today I'm experiencing a childlike frenzy that practically mirrors a memory from 1994.

So there I was, a six year old in Las Vegas. Vegas would seem a strange holiday destination for my family, neither parents being particularly into gambling and my sister and I wee tots of no more than ten, but we were vacation nuts, and we bounced from place to place. I hardly remember Vegas, but I loved it all the same.

One thing in particular, however, that I shan't forget, was the day we were out shopping, and I laid eyes on a prize like no other.

There, on the shelf, in plush form, was Sonic the Hedgehog.

Plushes were my thing as a kid, for some reason. Though neither as durable or versatile as other toys, they felt more robust to me, somehow. Maybe it was their larger size or their oh so fluffy exteriors, but I loved those plushes like a bevy of hookers, to be collected, and then later forgotten and stuffed in my closet.

For it to be a plush of fancy was one thing, but for it to be Sonic? Oh, good gracious! Had to have that sucker. Just HAD to.


Sonic was my boy, he was my man, he was my go-to guy. Of all the obsessions I had over the years, the three biggest, in no particular order, were Sonic, Ninja Turtles and Pokémon. Back when computers were a novelty, I once printed sixty pages of crappy Sonic images to put on my wall. I even wrote pensive comments on each picture, as though it made it more pertinent. Indeed, one picture even misprinted to just be completely black, and I somehow made a pencil-based observation to make it Sonic-relevant.

As an impressionable child of the 90s, Sonic was marketed so heavily to my demographic, it was almost like he was meant for me exclusively. He was cool! He was cocky! He was fast as all hell, and we loved him like the messiah.

Couple that with what may be the most compelling packaging known to man, with phrases like 'I need your help!' and 'take me home for adventure!', and the purchase was automatic.

...Eventually.

See, this Sonic plush had a price tag so inflated, gullible minds may fear it would float away.

My dad would have none of it. I don't mean to portray him as stingy, quite the opposite actually, but we left that store minus one blue hedgehog.


With that, I responded with the most powerful tool in my arsenal.

It used to be tantrums, but over six years of honing my craft, I had cultivated a much more potent tactic, one that would accentuate my parents' guilt, while minimizing the amount of trouble I would get in.

Ladies and gentlemen, I moped.

A sullen child can sure be a buzz kill while you're on holiday, and the only solution is to bite the bullet and buy that ridiculously overpriced toy. It worked in Fiji when I wanted a stuffed monkey (who I later dubbed Mutombo), and I won big in Vegas.

Sonic the Hedgehog was mine. I was a horrible, spoilt little bastard and I'm sorry.

Fast forward to today (with at least two more Sonic-related episodes along the way), and I am feeling those familiar emotions: Frustration. Vexation. Depression.

Unfortunately, the cure this time isn't as simple as outlasting my parents in a war of attrition. Now, it seems as though Sonic may have eluded my grasp once and for all.

You see, Sonic Generations has hit the scene; a celebratory game that brings back the very best of Sonic from the last two decades and delivers it to you in one splendid package: a collision of old and new, a beautiful tapestry of spin dashing, homing attacks and cute animals bashing the bejeezus out of enormous robots.

Exclusive to the UK and Australia for some reason, is the piece de resistance; the collector's edition. It includes a documentary, soundtrack, art book, exclusive figures and an individually numbered gold ring.


These are all things that, surely, another twenty years from now, will seem inconsequential, but right now, they are must-haves.

Usually, I'm ambivalent about collector's editions. But Sonic Generations isn't just a game, you see, it's an event. An experience. The culmination of twenty years of magical adventure. It has been released in three versions: standard, limited edition (with downloadable content and a fancy box), and the aforementioned collector's masterpiece.

I have decided that getting anything less than the maximum package would be a slight on my Sonic fandom as a whole, and unfortunately, I only came to this revelation yesterday.

The game came out six days ago, and pre-orders for the collector's holy grail date back to early September, if memory serves. Merrily strolling up to retailers now expecting to find it is akin to Arnold Schwarzenegger's quest for a Turbo Man in Jingle All the Way, only with fewer wacky escapades, as of yet no explosions, and little to no potential for a climactic showdown with Sinbad in an elaborate costume with a large brain.

This collector's edition, you see, only seems to have one batch. While proper nerds secured theirs through pre-order, rusty out of practice nerds like myself are left scrounging in the dirt for scraps. Already in an epidemic-level panic in the UK, the Poms are hawking it off at £300 on eBay and Amazon.

Pretty soon, their swindling Australian cousins will follow suit, demanding $465 for something that retailed at $165.

It's a sad situation, and I've exhausted nearly every option. EB Games, JB-Hifi, GAME, Gametraders, Myer, Kmart, Big W, Dick Smith Electronics... I even Tweeted desperately at gaming journalists, but they always ignores me. I wonder why. I guess they're not fans of Stone Protectors or Oogie Boogie.

The search shall continue, however, because I have a near autistic-level of obsession capability. Damn my career! Damn my engagement! Damn them all, for Sonic awaits out there, somewhere.

Seventeen years ago, he begged me to rescue him from a shopping mall in Las Vegas. Now, his time is running out, and the search radius has expanded to all of Australia.


Hang on, big blue, I'm a-comin'.